


The Sound of White

by audreyii_fic



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyii_fic/pseuds/audreyii_fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The middle of a rainy night on Egyptian cotton sheets. (For untilwebleedoz , Second Place winner in the TATS Banner Contest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [untilwebleedoz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=untilwebleedoz).



 

 

 

 

_**The Sound of White** _   
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__  
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_[and if I listen to the sound of white / sometimes i hear your smile and breathe your light](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRX3k_im5I8) _   
_Missy Higgins, "The Sound of White"_

 

  
  
  
  
  
It's the middle of the night. The rain strikes the tin roof in an endless metallic drumbeat, but that's not what's keeping you awake, you kind of like that sound actually. It reminds you of Forks. You don't miss Washington but every now and then a wistfulness settles into you like a thin shadow across the moon; _homesickness_ might be the term for it, even though you don't feel sick and Forks was never really home.  
  
  
Home is where Jacob Black is, and he's here beside you, snoring lightly.  
  
  
You're not tired, so you may as well put your time to good use.  
  
  
You roll onto your side and lean up, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. Jacob hardly ever phases anymore -- he doesn't need to these days -- but he still keeps his hair short and cropped, just in case. _It's a big, wide world out there,_ he'd said with the little smirk he saves for you and you alone. _Never know when you might need a wolf to get you through it._ In the beginning of your travels he phased almost daily; it took him awhile to believe that you could take care of yourself, that you didn't need another father (the one you've got is too damn protective already). Now he gets it and he backs off. Maybe he'll even regrow his ponytail soon.  
  
  
His face is softer when he sleeps, and his eyelashes touch his cheeks they're so long.  
  
  
Tin patters patters patters above your head. White noise.  
  
  
If you're looking him over you ought to survey the whole package, really. He's warm as always and never notices temperature changes, so he doesn't even stir when you tug the sheet away from from his body. (You've never liked fancy things, but you _do_ have certain weaknesses and high thread count Egyptian cotton is one of them. Whether you're staying in a five-star hotel in Paris or a tin-roofed hut on the Serengeti you strip the bed and put your sheets on every time. Jacob thinks it's funny as hell.) A smile curves across your lips as you take in all the exposed russet skin.  
  
  
Beautiful. So. Fucking. Beautiful.  
  
  
(You've developed a filthy mouth and now you can swear in five languages. Jacob thinks that's funny too.)  
  
  
You trace the edge of his branded deltoid with your pinky, light enough that he clearly doesn't feel it, if he did he'd respond because he always responds to your touch. You asked him once how he could possibly have gotten a tattoo with his werewolf healing; he answered that it took a lot of needles. You'd stroked the lines sadly. He'd laughed and told you not to worry about it. You'd stuck your tongue out at him.  
  
  
Tongue. That sounds good. Taste every inch of him. Stroke those arms, those sides, that firm stomach that's reflecting the moonlight because of the barest sheen of sweat over his flesh. It's hot in here, and you're already wet.  
  
  
If you can't sleep, why not do something fun? And Jacob won't mind being woken up for _this_.  
  
  
Your smile grows.  
  
  
You slink down the bed, pushing aside the white sheets entirely, leaving your nakedness open to the sticky air. (So what if you had sex six hours ago? That was six hours ago.) The moonlight reflects off your paler-than-pale skin too. It's annoying -- you feel like a damn nightlight sometimes -- but you've got more important things on your mind right now.  
  
  
He's already at half-mast which makes things easier, but he's also sleeping on his side and that won't do. The lightest push to his hip, just above the dark V that cuts across his pelvis, turns him onto his back. He makes an inarticulate noise but doesn't wake. Good. This should be a surprise. You like surprising him, and it's shockingly easy to do.  
  
  
You spread your thighs, settle yourself on all fours over his muscular legs, and take his cock down your throat.  
  
  
He gasps.  
  
  
You curl your lips over your teeth because if you smile _too_ much wider you'll nip him by accident.  
  
  
Jacob looks down at you, his black-brown eyes dazed, a choked noise forming in his chest. It's perfect, exactly what you were going for. You bob slightly and sweep your tongue along the tip and that choked noise becomes a groan. You can't help yourself, you grind against the knob of his knee and the pressure makes you nearly climax on the spot. You can come so fast with him it's almost embarrassing. Almost.  
  
  
His hips pump a few times; he's semi-conscious and instinctively fucking your mouth. But you're in control this time (he can be in charge tomorrow). You release him with a soft 'pop' and glance up innocently, batting your eyelashes. "Be good or I'll stop," you say.  
  
  
He groans again and reaches for your head, tangling his fingers deep into your hair, trying to pull you back to his dick. You resist with a playful giggle and he sobs, "God, Bells, _please_..."  
  
  
Your fluttering heart skips a few beats.  
  
  
It's been a long time since he last called you _Bells_.  
  
  
His hand pushes the back of your neck and now you don't fight; you return to work instead, licking and sucking in turn until he's a desperate panting mess. You could finish him off this way -- and you're tempted to -- but you know that's not what he needs. He's still mostly asleep and wants things he doesn't even know how to ask for.  
  
  
And you always do your best to give Jacob the things he wants.  
  
  
So you pull away (he whimpers) and climb up his body along all that russet skin you were admiring earlier. You let his heat graze your breasts. You kiss his jaw and spread your legs wider and sink onto him slowly, feeling him fill you the way you know no one else could.  
  
  
"Jesus, honey..."  
  
  
Your fingernails dig into Jacob's shoulders.  
  
  
You were made for him. _You_.  
  
  
That's why you raise your hands to cup his face, why you encourage him to look sleepily into your eyes as you pour everything you have into your strokes: devotion, reverence, _exclusivity_. You love him and _him alone_ and that's what he's seeking, the balm to the infected wound that never got a chance to heal and never will, no matter how hard you strive to fix it. The loss and pain of that first blow won't be wiped clean. When he wasn't enough.  
  
  
As though Jacob Black could ever not be enough.  
  
  
Acid rises but you shove it back down before he feels. The quick-jerk of your movements might give you away if he weren't high on pleasure; your expression certainly would if he were awake enough to see. But if he were awake enough to see this wouldn't be happening. So you flatten your palms against his chest, your right hand exactly over his heart, lift lower lift lower lift lower, and do what you can. "Want you, Jacob," you say. The friction increases; your body tries to pull his back in whenever he leaves, deeper and deeper, until you've absorbed every long inch. "Love you."  
  
  
Jacob lifts and his cock strokes exactly the right place. "Feels good Bells..." he mumbles, and his touches are so tender they sting.  
  
  
The stinging does not stop you from going faster, riding him with more force as the heat builds. He moves one hand to your breast and kneads inelegantly in his exhaustion. It's nice anyway. You imagine it's what being felt up in the back of a car would be like. You wouldn't know.  
  
  
"So good..."  
  
  
You make yourself think soft, pretty, happy thoughts. Uncomplicated thoughts. Jacob moans under your ministrations; he's coming close to the end and his breath is turning ragged. "Love you," you whisper again. "Only you." Only him. Jacob is the only one you see in color. Jacob is the only one that gets inside.  
  
  
He clutches at your shoulders and pulls you down flush against his chest, so hard that it knocks some of the air from your lungs. He moves to capture your mouth and you dodge so his lips brush your cheek instead, his fiery tongue running along the shell of your ear, and that's it, there, it's just right. He grunts as you clench in waves around him and holds onto your back tightly -- but not too tightly, because he thinks you can't take it. "Bella..."  
  
  
"Fuck me." His neck is salty and the rain is noisy. "Come for me."  
  
  
He drives into you -- rocking your body so perfectly that you almost fall apart a second time -- and makes a harsh, low sound, one that you know _so_ well. It's the sound of satisfaction and completion.  
  
  
And it always sounds just a little bit different when he's like this.  
  
  
You sigh.  
  
  
Now he's stroking your hair and trying to keep you close, but you pull out of his arms gently. "Get some rest, Jacob," you tell him. You won't call him _Jake_. You have limits.  
  
  
"Love you, Bells," he murmurs as he turns his face into the pillow. You pull the white sheet over his waist; he's snoring again within moments.  
  
  
You're _definitely_ not going to sleep after _that_.  
  
  
Instead you get up and stretch and open the rickety door, step out into the hot summer deluge flattening the grasslands all around you. In an instant your hair darkens into soggy ropes and the valleys of your body guide rivers. There's not a human being for miles, but you'd stand nude even if you were in a city street. You're not ashamed of anything.  
  
  
Lightning streaks across the sky and thunder doesn't follow. The downpour is here but the storm is too far off to sound. You pull the scent of ozone right into your veins.  
  
  
It's because of your eyes, maybe your voice. It's only happened on a dozen different occasions (this was the thirteenth, yes you're counting) but the first time it was the same. Jacob was mostly asleep. You must have looked at him in just the right-wrong way to trigger what he kept locked deep inside, what no one was supposed to see, himself included. He didn't remember when he woke up and you didn't say a word.  
  
  
(After the fourth time you told him you were ready to leave your family. _Let's get out of here. Let's travel. Let's see everything._ He'd been thrilled to breathe clean air again, excited that now it was just the two of you because he'd never really believed that would happen. As though you hadn't always planned to keep him for yourself.)  
  
  
You know it's your eyes that do it. You wish they'd been green, like your father's were once. You would have looked nice with green eyes -- but they're not green. They're brown. They're _hers_.  
  
  
You'll never blame your Jacob. It's not his fault.  
  
  
You know whose fault it is.  
  
  
The rain washes his seed from your thighs, and you'll probably have to kill her in the end.

 

 

_the end._


End file.
